


awake, arise

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Series: Tumblr Shorts [21]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Vampire Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 07:18:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16990500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: M has bequeathed Bond a mirror.





	awake, arise

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr. Edited and posted here for archive purposes.

“What,” Q asks, voice crisp and sharp, “is this?”

Bond peers out of the kitchen to see what Q’s talking about. It’s Q’s first time at his new flat—his new-new flat, not the empty place he occupied for the interim. This one’s nice, and he’s made an effort. (An effort on Q’s behalf, anyway—Bond doesn’t care about interior décor one way or the other. Q, on the other hand, has _opinions_.)

Q stands in the front hall. Bond traces the column of his throat with his eyes, down to where his jacket’s halfway removed, before he looks to see what Q’s taken issue with.

“A mirror,” Bond says. He ducks back into the kitchen as the stove chirps at him insistently.

“Another bequest of M’s?”

“How did you know?” Bond shuts off the gas and transfers the pot to a cooler burner. There’s just enough for dinner and leftovers tomorrow. He’s too focused on not burning his hands to hear Q glide into the kitchen, but he can tell nonetheless. A chill follows Q wherever he goes. Bond shudders, and it’s only half because of the sudden change in temperature.

“It’s backed with silver, you know,” Q says. He’s behind Bond’s back, breathing against his neck. Bond likes it, has told him so much; it’s the only reason Q keeps it up. Q props his chin on Bond’s shoulder to see what he’s made.

“Oh?” Bond asks, enjoying the press of Q against him. He misses it, when he doesn’t have his personal ice cube to cool him down. “What do you see in it?”

Q’s grip on his shoulder tightens, but then it’s gone. Bond looks to see Q’s face drawn tight, eyes averted.

“Q?”

“It’s nothing,” Q says with a shrug. He smiles easily, but Bond knows better. “I don’t suppose you’ve made enough for two?”

Bond draws Q in for a kiss, mindful of the hot stove behind him.

“Maybe,” Bond teases. “If you’re good, you can have a taste.”

Q licks his lips, eyes dark and wide.

“I think,” he says, “I’ve more than earned it.” He slides in for another kiss, lips firm and demanding against Bond’s. Dinner can wait a few minutes longer.

* * *

Technically speaking—and most of Bond’s life hinges on technicalities one way or another—technically speaking, Q does not need to sleep. His body does not change; he can neither gain energy nor lose it. That’s the extent of Bond’s understanding. Q hadn’t been eager to explain, and Bond hadn’t wanted to press him. There are things they don’t talk about, even now.

That said, while Q may not _need_ to sleep, he _does_ sleep. Bond found it unnerving in the beginning; Q’s still while he rests, chest compressed and devoid of oxygen. He’s grown accustomed to it, though there was a definite adjustment period, and now he can scarcely sleep without Q now.

Tonight, though? Tonight is different.

 _It’s backed with silver_ , Q had said. Bond stares at the ceiling, wide awake and none too happy about it. Q had eaten a bit of dinner as though nothing had happened. (Q doesn’t need to eat, either. He’d made that perfectly clear early on. Vampires with less control drink blood because it smells and tastes good to their altered palates, but everything else is much the same. Privately, Bond finds the whole thing inscrutable and hardly fair, as Q never seems to need the WC, nor does he gain weight, but the fact of the matter remains.)

Bond rolls out of bed, and Q doesn’t so much as stir. His eyes flutter underneath his eyelids, one of the only signs that he’s more than a corpse. He’s hard to wake, once he’s gone to sleep. Bond kisses Q’s head because he can, because somehow, somewhere, he managed to stumble into this, and then he leaves the bedroom.

The mirror stands just to the right of the front door, above a low bench and beside the hatstand. In the dull light, Bond can hardly see his own reflection. The mirror is greying and faded. Cracks mar the corners. Bond doesn’t know where it came from, only that it had once belonged to M’s husband’s grandmother. Bond had heard the whole story one night when he’d come to see M and had found her husband home instead. He’d always struck Bond as a tragic individual—quite in love with his wife, but trapped in a world in which he could know next to nothing of her. Depressing, Bond had thought. That night, he’d struck up a conversation with Bond not as though he were a home invader (which he was) but as a friend (which, curiously enough, and through no effort on Bond’s part, they’d become). M had returned home to find them drinking together, in deep conversation about John Milton and his ideas of self, individuality, and the dichotomy of good and evil as read through _Paradise Lost_. He’d never managed to surprise her half so much again.

A long time had passed since that night. Nothing remains the same.

Bond stands, thinking and staring, until he feels the muscles in his legs protesting his lack of movement. Age is catching up to him in the most unusual ways, he thinks.

There’s only one thing to do.

* * *

Q doesn’t mention the absence of the mirror when they leave in the morning. He glances only once at the space where it once hung, his shoulders clearly tense. Bond sees him in stop-motion, time slowing to a tortuous crawl. Q looks, and looks, and then, only then, do his shoulders relax.

He continues out the door as though nothing had caught his attention whatsoever.

* * *

It takes a few weeks. The mirror is old, after all, and these things require no small degree of care. When all’s said and done, though, Bond hangs it right back where it was and waits.

He’s there in the foyer when Q returns home. He’s already removed his jacket, and he’s halfway to Bond before he notices the mirror has returned.

“James,” Q says. It’s a warning, one that leaves Bond’s skin prickling.

“Look,” Bond says. Q stares at him, eyes hard, before he walks back to check the mirror.

The moment stretches between them. Bond watches as Q raises a hand to the glass, fingers ghosting over the surface. He purses his lips, stands up a little straighter, and rolls his neck.

“It’s crooked,” Q murmurs finally. He runs a finger along the bottom edge of the mirror, tilting it ever so slightly clockwise.

That night, Q rides him, ferocious and insatiable. It’s Bond’s favorite, and they both know it.

Some things, they don’t talk about. Sometimes, when they’re lucky, they don’t need to.

**Author's Note:**

> or: Bond gets a silver-backed mirror rebacked so that Q can see his reflection.


End file.
